With the arrival of warmer days, I can't help but recall the Spring weekend our family spent at a Northwestern Ontario fishing lodge many years ago. I was organizing a medical conference there so our mini-vacation was gratis.

Daughter was only four, but that didn't stop hubby from wanting to take her fishing off the dock of the Marina. In preparation for the event, he poured over store shelves; re-stocking his supplies of hooks, lures, lines and anything else he thought they would need.

She picked out her very own kiddie rod and reel.

He purchased a fishing license.

He was determined that father and daughter were going to bring home dinner that weekend, even though we had a formal dining room with world-class chefs awaiting us back at the Lodge.

The big day came. Early one sunny morning we lugged the tackle boxes down to the lake, hubby stopping off to buy minnows on the way.

As he began to assemble the gear, daughter took charge of the minnows. Crouching low over the pail of live bait, she was entranced and proceeded to NAME them.

Not a good sign.

For when hubby tried to retrieve one to place on the hook, of course daughter freaked out.

"Ahhh!!!! No Daddy! Not Pickle!!!!!"


That marked the abrupt end to the Great Father-Daughter Fishing Derby of 1995.

Even though she pleaded with us to bring them home as pets, we convinced her they should be "set free" in the lake. So she dumped the pail of minnows over the edge of the wooden dock, cheerily waving, her high little voice bidding them farewell.

"Goodbye Pickle! Goodbye Sarah!"




As we turned to leave, my disgruntled husband swore he saw his catch jumping out of the water with glee as they gulped down the free meal we had just deposited for them.

And daughter, oblivious to it all, simply skipped down the path to the Lodge, swinging her empty pail in delight.




For her, that was the best "fishing trip" ever.

For hubby?

Not so much.

Watching my daughter turn 17 this past week, I realize she has developed a lot of the same characteristics as I possess (all GOOD traits, needless to say).

Ahem.

An affinity for technology.

A love of animals.

The pleasure of reading.

To name a few.

Unfortunately, she has also inherited a certain er, let's call it "idiosyncrasy" from hubby's side of the family.

Yes. Good characteristics from me. Idiosyncrasies from him. My blog. My opinion.

It's something that I had suspected for awhile now, but the events of the other night simply confirmed it:

0100: Being the weekend, the entire family hit the sack quite late.

0215: Because I am a notoriously light sleeper and/or the "Mom Instinct" kicked in, I awoke when daughter got up to use the bathroom. Fearing the flu had hit yet again, I heard her shuffling around in the medicine cabinet.

0230: Seemingly fine, she returned to her bedroom for the rest of the night.

Sometime later I finally drifted back to sleep, reassured she was okay.

In the morning I was already awake (and yes, at the laptop blogging as usual) when daughter emerged from her room looking confused. She told me she remembered taking out her contacts before bed last night, but when she got up, they were back in again.

She had no memory of getting up in the middle of the night.

She had no memory of putting in her contacts.

She had no memory of placing all her supplies back in perfect order in the medicine cabinet.

Yup. She was sleepwalking last night.


So when hubby finally awoke, I blamed him. For you see, his mother has often recited stories of family sleepwalkers.

Thanks dear. Thanks so much for that contribution to the gene pool.

But noting how meticulous she was, I can't help but think it's really a shame she doesn't clean her room in her sleep...

It's that time again.

Time for my annual physical check-up. Actually, "annual" is a misnomer.

More like quadrannual* visit to the doctor, as I only seem to drag myself there every four years. (* Okay, I KNOW that's not a real word. But it does sound cool... quadrannual, quadrannual...)

It's kinda like the Olympics.

The first event? The Booking Of The Appointment.

My competition is fierce: an over-zealous secretary, seasoned in the sport who can multitask scheduling, answering phones and assisting the physician all at the same time. Her intense training has served her well; with mouse flying and fingers hammering the keyboard, she deftly searches the calendar for an available slot.... we parry dates and times back and forth; me with my Palm Pilot, she with the Mac.

Dang! She takes the first race by keeping me waiting three months.

In preparation for the next match, The Laboratory Tests, I was instructed to fast. I read my instructions again. Fourteen hours???? I can't have anything to eat or drink for 14 frickin' hours? Oh, wait. I get water....

Perfect. I'll definitely need that for one of the tests...

Early the following day I find myself at the Medical Facility Venue.

I wasn't lulled into a false sense of calm by the cutsie Keith Kimberlin kitten and puppies posters lining the walls; they were out for blood here.

I started out slowly, holding sixth place in line when I was tripped up by an elderly lady in front who decided she needed a 30 minute rest stop in the one and only bathroom. Employing my best tippy-toe manoeuvre with specimen cup in hand, I began to sweat as I surveyed the crowded wating room. In horror I realized there were four more geriatric gents with accompanying specimen bottles all ahead of me. Ahhhhhh!

After finally completing that leg of the marathon successfully, I size up my opponent for the ensuing bout; a large Russain technician with dark red lips pursed with tension. I ponder back and forth whether to ask if I can record the momentous occasion with a photo. She is stern and I fear repercussions; I can imagine her hearty laugh, a thunderous "Nyet!" as she stabs me with the syringe.

I jump when her thick accent barks out my name and I head to the little room with the student-style chair/desk and take my position. I also decide to risk it all.

Surprisingly, she smiles and is more than pleased to have me take pictures as she drains three vials of blood from my arm.

Hah! I finally win a Round, for I refrain from fainting (it's been known to happen) and I have brightened her day with a story she can regale her co-workers with for years to come.

"You should have zeen za nut vit a camera I poked today..."

But it is far from over. The sport recommences in two weeks when the Abdominal Jabbing, Wheezing Test and the dreaded Stirrup Sessions are scheduled.

In the meantime, I decide to continue my prepartory training in weight loss and scale jumping.

Now I remember exactly WHY I choose to participate in these damn Games only once every four years.

I need an eyepatch.

One I can swiftly swap from left to right.

(Wow, that sounds like a Huey Lewis song...)

No, I didn't poke myself in the eye; but with my previously-stated Deprivation of Spacial Relationships, I am not surprised that would be your first guess.

And I am not THAT much of a Johnny Depp fan that I want to look like a Pirate.

I am trialing new contact lenses. I have worn glasses for years, but really wanted to try contacts.



I've had them for a few weeks now, and have no problem putting them in or taking them out. They don't bother me at all in fact.

Whoo Hoo!

No more glare...

No more red marks on the side of my nose...

I can wear real sunglasses again...



Maybe they'll even make me look younger!
(Har! They're not MAGIC lenses, Maureen)

However, because I have astigmatism I can't get the bifocal lenses I need.

Instead, the optometrist has given me a lens for my astigmatism in the right eye, and a reading lens in the left eye.

Surprisingly, that combo seems to work well.

At first.

But as the day wears on, things around me get fuzzy; both far and near. So I realised today that if I cover one eye, I can see far clearly. Then, if I cover the other eye, I can read just fine.

Crap.

Do you think "The Pirate Look" will ever be in fashion?

If you ever came to dinner at my house, there is a 99.999992% chance you will be eating from a plate, bowl or cup that has a chip out of it.

Why is this, you ask? (I am assuming you ARE asking or this will be the stupidest shortest post I've ever written...)

Am I so frugal that I still use really, really old dishware?

Do I loan out my table settings as targets to myopic skeet shooters?

Am I chucking them into the air to create bogus UFO videos?

No. No. And perhaps.

Actually, I simply have a problem with depth perception. Well, maybe "problem" is a tad understated.

I am cursed with a Lack Of Coordination.

I possess a Deficiency Of Proper Perception.

A Deprivation of Spacial Relationships.

These days I rarely encounter a session of emptying the dishwasher without somehow cracking one plate on another whilst trying to stack them in the cupboard. It's not uncommon to watch shards fly as yet another piece of my matching dishware is slowly destroyed.


I am seriously considering the necessity of wearing safety goggles when putting away the dishes.



So if you DO risk life and limb to visit, just search carefully through that salad... you may find it's a lot crunchier than it should be.

A most unexpected thing happened while watching our recorded version of the Survivor finale on Sunday.

Something that had my daughter in stitches as I screamed in horror.

Yeah, go ahead; tease me now about reality shows...

I fully admit to being a Survivor fan since the first season. I've even met two Survivor All-Stars; Ethan Zohn (winner of Survivor Africa) and Jenna Morasca (winner of Survivor Amazon). Following that first meeting, Ethan and I traded a few emails back and forth about my donation to his African Grassroots Soccer AIDS charity (which his million dollar prize money founded).

Okay.

That's enough.

Really.

Finished with the wisecracks yet?

Good. Now back to Sunday.

Because hubby made my Mother's Day dinner, we Tivo'd the show and watched it together on delay a bit later in the evening.

With constant interruptions.

After two-plus hours, just as Jeff Probst was to read the final, possibily tie vote for the million dollar winner, the recording stopped.

Dead.


Just like that.

Film editors for the Sopranos couldn't have timed it better.

As he unfolded the last parchment, the Tivo beeped and asked if we wanted to delete the show.

I howled.

Hubby just sat there and blinked.

Daughter laughed hysterically at my pain.

I couldn't believe it! I had to find out if Amanda (my choice) or Parvati (hubby's choice) had won... what the hell?

I went back to our program list and desperately searched - and sure enough Tivo had recorded the final hour of the show (including the Reunion special) in a separate file.

Rats. Parvati won.

And daughter laughed hysterically at me once more.

In my continuing quest to become a more Environmentally Conscious Person, I purchased yet another cloth bag to use while shopping. I found it this weekend at Chapter's bookstore and thought it would be great to also carry my other reusable bags in.

Or more likely, to forget in the car whilst I peruse the mall.

So it wasn't until today (okay now, I never claimed to be that observant, did I?) that I noticed the printing on the outside are actually names of famous Canadians:


Neil Young
Norman Jewison
Shania Twain
Jim Carrey
The Barenaked Ladies
Superman
William Shatner
Avril Lavigne
Donald Sutherland
Paul Anka
The Guess Who
Eugene Levy
Rocky & Bullwinkle
John Candy
Lorne Michaels
Mike Myers
Michael Buble
James Cameron
Wayne Gretsky
Lorne Greene
Leslie Neilson

are just some of the famous people (err.. and fictional characters it seems) from the Great White North displayed in script.

Cool! This makes me so proud, eh.

So patriotic to be a Canadian!

And then I noticed the tag inside:



Yup. It makes me so proud to be a Canadian all right....

As sure as the re-appearance of geese and flowers after our long bitter winter, Spring also heralds the arrival of the local travelling Carnival. Each May they squeeze into the neighborhood Community Centre parking lot, poised to extract as much cash as possible from obliging parents and rich tweens.

Years ago we took daughter on those kiddie rides... she loved it of course, but in milliseconds we could drop $50 on second-rate rollercoasters, substandard toys and wretched food.

Oh yeah.

It WAS fun.


Since they assembled the Midway last night, I thought I would snap a few photos early this morning on the way to work. As soon as I stepped out of my car with camera in hand though, a burly Night-Security-Guard / Roadie appeared as if out of thin air.

I think he was hiding behind the Finding Nemo ride just waiting to pounce on ne're-do-wells...


Surprisingly though, with a smile and friendly wave of approval, he let me walk around to capture the colors of the Fair. I wanted to get real close for some artsy-fartsy weird angle shots, but I didn't want to press my luck with him scrutinizing my every move.


At least I got some nice closeups while everything was uncharacteristically serene.

Because in a few short hours, the Amusement Park will burst to life with loud music, flashing lights, screaming kids and the distinct aroma that all outdoor festivals seem to exude.


And I just drop to my knees in gratitude to the Gods of Luck that we don't live directly across the street from it...

I try, but geez do I fail miserably when attempting to help others.

There have been too many times that I've mistakenly given wrong directions.... at work, the store... and I realize my error too late and feel horrible. I don't know why people keep coming up to me and request assistance; I should just wear a sign that says "Ask At Your Own Risk" or something.

It happened again today.

As I was leaving the parkade at work, a lady and her elderly mother were backing their little car away from the automated exit gate. Looking distressed and stopping in the entrance lane, they waved to me so I rolled down my window.

"Do you know where we can pay for our parking?"

Oh crap. I couldn't recall... you see, I have always used my handy-dandy "Magic Parking Gate Thingy" to enter and exit.


But I DID know that this exit had no attendant.

So I suggested to them to re-park, cross the street and ask the Parking Guy at the other hospital lot where to pay.

They thanked me, and as a lineup of cars began to queue up behind my van, I left feeling pretty good about lending a helping hand to strangers in need.

I felt like a Good Samaritan.

I felt smart.

"S-M-R-T. Smart. I am smart."

Until I was half-way home and remembered there was a parking pay station around the corner just a few feet away from that exit.

Oh crap.

I really NEED to make that sign. And one for the car too.

... you can hear the sea.

If I go near a Shell, all I hear is the sound money cascading from my wallet like water plummeting over Niagara Falls.

So it's no shock to read that Shell Oil's European division made $9 billion (yes, that's a "B") dollars in profit in the first three months of 2008.

And still no shock that today gas went up yet again.

To a new high of $1.30 per litre.

Since the Canadian and American dollars are about par right now, that's $4.92 per US gallon.



Yeah, I may not be shocked.

Yet.

But I may need a defibrillator soon.

I was reminded of something from my childhood by this great post over at Momo Fali's:

Who Needs A Crystal Ball

If you haven't read it yet, go ahead and pop over. I'll wait.


La-de-da....

Wow... that carpet REALLY needs a vacuuming...

I wonder what I'm going to do on my day off tomorrow...

NOT vacuuming, that's for sure...



Oh! You're back? Cool story eh?

Okay, so here's my similar tale from years ago:

Back in the 60's, our family would visit relatives in Alberta every summer during The Calgary Stampede. On those hot dusty July days, we would be dragged to the exhibits, parades and the huge Western-themed midway. The unmistakable odor of livestock permeated the air, mixed with the aroma of corndogs and cotton candy.

Yummy.

We would spend entire days there for a week on end. The only shade we were afforded came from the cowboy hats required to even gain entry to the Rodeo Grounds.

One year (I was about eight I believe) I remember sitting in the stifling grandstand waiting for the horse races to start. Being the youngest in the group, of course I was fidgety. I really wasn't interested in the actual races, but I did enjoy watching the majestic animals proudly trot around in front of us before lining up on the track. Noting the numbers on their flanks, I took a look at the program and announced to my family which horse was going to win the first race.

Of course this was cause for a few snickers and smiles from my older brother, sister and parents.

That was okay, I just wanted to make a game of it.

When the first race ended and I had in fact picked the winner, it was chocked up to "Luck".

Then all but the final race ended...with my predictions for each and every one spot on. Today, I honestly can't recall if there were six or eight races running that day; but I do remember that the basis for my choice of winner included my affinity to the horse's name and/or silks color ... all very scientific, naturally! But not being a gambling family, no one bet; we were just there to watch.

Needless to say, with each successive race, more and more spectators around us were listening in. Then an elderly gent came up to me and asked who I thought would win the last race. I sheepishly picked a name that jumped out at me and the man left to put his money down.

And of course...

Yep.

...the horse lost.

I felt bad for the fellow, but I think I felt worse that I didn't get them all right.

I think the Gods of Luck just wanted to play too.